


you weren't supposed to know

by casofsuburbia



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Diary/Journal, Gen, Pre-Canon, Prompt Fill, Suicidal Thoughts, self-hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-29 19:02:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casofsuburbia/pseuds/casofsuburbia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt at <a href="http://destielpromptoftheday.tumblr.com/">Destiel Prompt of the Day</a>:</p><p>"While digging through the Bunker, Cas and Sam come across a hunter’s journal stuffed way back in a hidden area. They soon discover it’s actually Dean’s journal, and while it contains a great deal of information about monsters, demons, and angels, it also contains a lot of personal information about Dean’s emotional and psychological state of mind. By reading the journal, they discover just how deep Dean’s depression, self loathing, and abandonment issues really run. How do they help him?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unfinished prompt fill. Wait for the next chapters, and I'll edit the tags as needed. :) As of now, it's a gen!fic. Just wait, though. I'm going to make it into a full-blown Destiel one in time. ♥
> 
> Also, once tags are edited, please do take note of them. It might get triggering, and I don't want to do that to anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks Arica for beta-ing. ♥
> 
> Concrit, dear friends. uwu
> 
> Update December 11, 2013: Hey guys! I've checked author subscriptions, and this one reached 12. Thank you! I feel absolutely horrible that I've not gotten to writing any future chapters, and I want to apologise. University has been demanding. Anyway, thank you for staying with me. You all are wonderful. c: Please don't lose faith in me, haha.

"Sam," Castiel called after pulling out a small book from one of the drawers on the library shelves—these were the library shelves at the basement, mostly filled of journals of the Men of Letters, and Castiel didn't know why that one stood out but it did. It had a brown leather cover, tattered at the edges and wrinkles covering most of it, with weathered pages that turned brown at the sides. It had been stained by beer and blood and sweat, and it smelled faintly of metal and salt. Sam and Castiel sat themselves down next to each other, the angel carefully lifting the leather latch and placing the book on the table between them. They flipped through the first half like it was nothing; they already knew everything in this, from demons to angels and wendigos to shifters. It wasn't until the second half of the journal that they both stopped—it was blank. They flipped the book over and tried to see if there was anything else in it; surely, Cas wouldn't be drawn to it for nothing. And they did see something. 

 

_December 26, 1991_

_Broken Bow, Nebraska_

Dad's gone. Sam and I were alone on Christmas again after Dad promised he'd be here. I don't know how much longer I can do this without talking to anybody, so... here's this.

Everything that's happened so far is a nightmare, for both me and Sammy. What's worse is he finally knows about the nightmares now. He read Dad's journal, and I'm not sure what to do with that. He asked me if monsters were real on Christmas Eve, and I can't lie to my little brother. Not anymore. He was only eight, and I'm not sure if I should have told him that. He was scared. I saw it in his eyes. I told him Dad was a superhero that could kill these things and keep us safe but he was still scared that the monsters will get us, or Dad, because they got Mom. 

Sam doesn't want to be here, I know that. When I told him that Dad was going to be here for Christmas, he told me he wanted to go to bed. He was holding back his tears. If I didn't know any better, I'd say he's pissed. Dad continued to lie to us, making all these empty promises.

I wouldn't be surprised if Sam leaves us one day, but I hope he doesn't. I know how much he wants to be normal. He wonders a lot about why we move so often, and he wants to stay most times. I can't blame him. I want to stay sometimes too, but I think I've learned that I can't make friends while in school. It'll just hurt harder. 

I can tell him about the monsters but not about Mom. I'm not sure that he'll understand, or if he's ready for that yet. I think I'm the one who doesn't understand; maybe that's why I don't want to tell him. I don't know how Mom died, except that she burned on the ceiling, but that's it. I don't think Sam would understand from just that. There's still a lot of bits and pieces missing that Dad won't even tell me. Whatever.

All I know is that I don't want Sam to be afraid of the monsters. He needs to believe that I won't let anything hurt him or get to him, because I'm his big brother and I'll keep him safe, even if it means giving up everything I've got. He's all I've ever known and all I ever will know. I'm being such a wuss, but nobody would be able to read this but me, so I don't care. I don't know what I'd do if I lost Sammy. That would be on me, because I was supposed to keep him safe. Can I screw that up? The one job I have?

I hope not. I don't have anyone else and I don't need anyone else, really. Just Sam and Dad. I'm okay with just them.

Merry Christmas.

-D.W.

 

"D.W.? Dean's? I never knew Dean kept a journal." Sam said, dragging his fingers across the yellowing pages, feeling the hard press of the pen against paper on his fingertips.

"I believe that is the point of keeping one." Castiel cocked his head to the side, flipping to page two.

 

_January 13, 1992_

_Sioux Falls, Iowa_

We're at Uncle Bobby's for the day. Dad said he needed Uncle Bobby's help for a hunt so he left Sam and I here. I like Uncle Bobby's place. I remember staying here when Sam and I were little. Aunt Karen was still alive back then. I remember her baking me an apple pie when I turned five. I remember clearly because that was the first birthday that I didn't have Mom's apple pie. I miss Mom. I'm going to turn thirteen soon—it's going to be eight years—and I still can't get over it.

Maybe things like this we can't really get over.

Sam's asleep on the couch again. It's 1am and Dad and Uncle Bobby still haven't come home. I'm pretty sure it'll be one of those nights again where I don't get any sleep. It's okay, I guess. Watch out for Sammy, right? I remember two years ago. 

It was in Wisconsin. I went out after Sam fell asleep because I was bored, and I thought nothing bad would happen if I went to the arcade for just a little while. I feel so bad. I still feel so bad. A  ~~shiri~~   ~~shrti~~

Screw it. It was a spirit dressed in a dark cloak. I saw it sucking something out of Sam. It was white, it looked like energy. I was too scared to pull the trigger on the rifle. If Dad didn't come through that door... Sam would've been dead. Because of me. It still eats at me every day. Dad trusted me and Sam trusted me, and I let them down. I almost got Sam killed. I didn't obey orders and that's what happens. 

Remember this: Obey Dad's orders. Watch out for Sammy. 

Forget that one more time.

I don't know what to do with myself. Right now, I'm here on the floor leaning against the couch Sam's sleeping on. The shotgun's sitting next to me.

Sometimes I wonder what it would feel to put that shotgun to my head. Just so I can take  a break. I mean, I love Sam and I love Dad, and family's all I have but... it's too hard sometimes. When Dad gets home, I tell him that it's okay whenever I see him upset after a hunt. I watch out for Sam. I can't help but feel I watch out for both of them. There's so much responsibility on my shoulders, to keep Sam safe and to have everything in order for when Dad gets home. I'm not so sure how long I can keep doing this, living like this, but I'll try for Sam. 

Always try for Sam.

-D.W.

 

"Wow," Sam said, chording his fingers through his hair as he withdrew his eyes from the pages of the journal to something—anything—else. He pressed both his palms to his eyes, wiping away what small amount of tears formed while he was reading. He knew Dean cared that much about him, but to see that in words? And how  _watch out for Sammy_  is literally the only constant thought in his mind? Sam doesn't know how to feel about that, especially when he doesn't think that the bunker is as much a home as Dean does. Sam knows that Dean's right—he will leave, because he can't live like this, because he wants a family—but he can't abandon his brother. Cas placed a hand on Sam's shoulder, concern evident on every feature on his face. Cas cares about Dean as much as Sam does and he understands the thoughts racing through Sam's head.

Dean was thirteen years old, thinking of killing himself. How  _were_  they supposed to feel about that?

"Cas, where's Dean?"

"He's out for groceries." A long silence followed as Sam's eyes locked on the words, reading them over and over again in his head. 

"What are we supposed to do, Cas? I know Dean isn't a ray of sunshine, but I never knew it was this early."

"I don't know," Cas said, running his fingers over the pages, narrowing his eyes at the blue ink that seeped into the deep creases made by a forceful press of a pen on paper. "Should we continue reading?"

"Yeah," Sam paused.  "Can you look for Lisa? 1998 or 1999." Cas followed Sam obediently, not asking any further questions. He had no need to—he could read Sam's mind if he wanted to, but he felt as much as Sam felt. He knew what was going on in Sam's head, because he loved Dean as much as Sam did.

 

_January 3, 1999_

_Cicero, Indiana_

I'm here in a girl's bathroom at 2am. Lisa Braeden—god, this girl is perfect. We've spent five days together and now, I'm thinking she might be the girl I want to marry.

Listen here. I don't know what the hell happened, but I like her. Not the way I liked other girls, but I  _really_ like her. She makes the best pies. When we both go to bed and I start falling asleep, she looks me in the eyes and runs her fingers through my hair. She doesn't tell me that she loves me like all those other girls do, and maybe that's why I don't want to leave. No pressure, no commitment—because I will leave her someday and that hurts me, in a lot of ways. For once in my life, I find someone who likes hard rock and cars and pies as much as I do and I have to leave her. This is why I shouldn't have relationships; it's only a matter of when I leave.

I've told her a little about the family; no names, or whatever. Just feelings. I know I don't like having chick-flick moments, but she was the first person in a long time that I could talk to. She told me I hated myself too much, that I don't think of myself too much when I should. She says I've done a great job protecting my little brother and being an obedient son, and despite a "hard exterior", I'm actually one of the most caring guys she's ever met.

Not that I should be proud of that.

She tells me I'm so much more than I think I am, and she wants me to see that. She knows I'm more than this stupid stud who leaves a trail of girls behind every town he goes to. She sees more than the Dean Winchester everyone else knows. She makes me feel like I do have something more to live for than keeping Sam safe and following Dad's orders. 

Although, that isn't a bad way to live. Keeping Sam safe and following Dad is all I know. And all I ever will know. I can't screw that up.

Fuck this, you know. I still have to leave her. I guess I'll say goodbye to her tomorrow morning, and just forget about the whole damn thing. It's not like I'll be here again, or see her again.

I'm not worth anything more than what Dad tells me I am. She won't look for me, because I'm still a useless piece of shit who can't do anything right. I don't deserve her, and she sure as hell doesn't deserve a complete fuck-up. 

-D.W.

 

"Flip to when I left for Stanford." Sam was completely focused on the page as Cas glanced at him, concerned for Dean's little brother. The next page Sam's asking for— he knows the possibilities. He knows that the things on it might crush Sam. Not Dean's anger towards him, but more of the guilt; he's watched over Dean for a time, now. He knows what Dean did that night.

He remembers he started watching over Dean when he heard news that Azazel was gathering demons to possess people for Sam. This was what Heaven warned them about: the trigger. Sam will leave. Sam will find friends, a girlfriend, too; these are going to be demons, masquerading as people, gathered by Azazel. Eventually, John will leave Dean for three weeks, causing Dean to look for Sam and pull him back into the hunting life. Then, the Apocalypse would push through smoothly. The angels knew but didn't stop it; the Apocalypse was their plan, too—and Castiel? His loyalties were to Heaven, and Heaven alone. He only watched over the Winchester boy to make sure things go according to plan. He was not the only angel watching over Dean—he was important, he was Michael's vessel—but he was the one who spent the most time doing so; this is why he was the first to find Dean in Hell. It haunts him, now, that so much loss and suffering could have been avoided if only he had told Dean not to let his brother leave. But, he wasn't the Castiel he is now and surely, Dean wouldn't have believed him. He had no reason to.

Cas turned the pages, remembering the exact date Sam left. He carefully read the headings of the pages, but found out that Dean had written nothing that day. He checked the next few pages, but they weren't about Sam or Stanford—they were random sketches of guns and swords and monsters.

"There isn't anything here, Sam."

"What?" Sam pulled the journal closer to himself and turned more pages, maybe around twenty more, until he landed on this page.

 

_August 20, 2002_

_Palo Alto, California_

Sam and Dad were at each other's throats this exact day last year. Hell, I wanted to punch Dad in the face, too. You know what he did? He told Sam that if he steps out the door, he should never come back. What the fuck, man? All my life, he has been asking me to take care of my little brother. I can take care of Sam while he's in Stanford, no matter how hard that is; but, no, he tells Sam he can't come back to any of us to ask for help. When Sam left, Dad told me not to talk to Sam. At all.

I'm Dad's soldier; I follow everything he tells me to, and it's a curse. If I stood up for Sam—if I stood up for Sam, dammit—things might have been different.

Ever since Sam left for Stanford, Dad and I have been doing different gigs. We're rarely together anymore. He texts every night to tell me he's fine, meeting up every couple of weeks to get a beer or something. Every night so far, I pull out my phone and think of sending a text to Sammy. You know, textbook stuff—like how he is and things like that. I miss my little brother, and it's killing me not knowing if he's okay or not.

You know what else changed? I was okay with living when Sam was still around and Dad didn't keep bailing on me. When Sam left, Dad was distant. He was already distant before, but at least then he'd talk to me when I fucked shit up. Now, he doesn't care. When we meet, he just talks about his hunt and smiles and then passes out. He asks me for a couple of bucks before he leaves, then he's gone again. He used to, even just remotely, treat me like his son—telling me what's wrong and all that. I feel like a stranger to him. And Sam? I feel so fucking bad. I don't know what the hell's happening to that kid right now. For all I know, he might be dying and he still wouldn't call the last few seconds that he could. Sam hates me. I did nothing to stand up for him when he needed me to, but what could I have done? That was Dad. And if I went with him to Stanford... you know I'm not cut out for that kind of life. But, god help me. Sam's the only thing I cared about and he cared back, but because I'm a wonderful fuck-up, I've lost him for who knows how long.

Sam was the only person that made me feel like I don't break more than I can fix. I mean, I've mainly spent my whole life trying to protect him. I'm lost right now. I don't know what I should be doing while I'm breathing, or if I should still be breathing at all.

Well, there's Dad the stranger. I don't understand my blind faith in him, but I'm not gonna let that go. Last thing to hold on to.

I need Sam back, but we all know that's not happening.

Dad's the only thing keeping me from putting those guns to my head, now. He might be acting like a stranger, but he's all I have.

Don't screw this one up, or you'll have chunky salsa on the roof of your car and the world says goodbye to Dean Winchester forever. To think of it, that might be a pretty nice world. No one would notice if I suddenly dropped dead, and life without me sounds nice. Heh.

-D.W.

P.S. Found Sam's apartment. Knew this trip wouldn't be in vain. A year later and it looks like the kid's doing just fine. At least Sammy's okay. That's good enough for me.

 

"Hey, I got burritos and beer! The hell are you two?" Dean called out, his voice echoing throughout the bunker. Sam quickly gestured at Cas to stow the journal where he found it, both of them quickly running upstairs afterwards to meet Dean.

"Where'd you two go?" Dean asked as Sam and Cas met him in the kitchen, putting some meat in the fridge.

"The basement," Sam answered and Dean subtly flinched at the word; his journal was in the basement, but he was sure they couldn't have found it. It was camouflaged between the other journals. They couldn't have found it— that wasn't possible. 

Sam was busy stacking canned goods in the overhead cabinets while Cas was standing in the hallway, keeping his mouth shut. He was afraid that he'd accidentally blurt something he shouldn't have. Maybe he'll talk to Dean about it when Sam does, but he wasn't completely sure that Sam would. Not now, anyway. He knows that Sam was worried sick about his brother after seeing what he's read, but even Sam knows that talking to Dean about _feelings_  wouldn't do him any good.

Dean decided to break the lingering silence, obviously uncomfortable, "I'll get dinner ready, you and Cas just wait at the table, got that?" 

"Cas." Sam said, signaling that he had to leave the kitchen. Cas followed obediently, turning away and walking quietly to the far seat at the table. Sam waited a few minutes before deciding to talk; he sensed the the uneasy air between him and his brother, and he knew that Dean knew. And that Dean was a little bit afraid.

"Dean, I know what you have in the basement." Sam said, leaning on the counter and watching his brother emptying the last contents of the paper bag into the fridge. "You have to talk to me about this."

"We've already had this talk, Sam. I don't need it again." Dean kept averting his eyes from landing on his brother, afraid of what he'd see. He pulled out the takeaway burritos and placed them in the microwave. He pressed the buttons and the only sounds that filled the air were beeping noises.

"We have to talk about this, Dean. I knew you weren't okay but I never knew it started way back." 

"What the hell are we supposed to do, Sam? Go to a shrink and hope he understands when I tell him my mom burned on the ceiling, or my dad dragged me and my brother around the country our whole lives to find a demon?"

"Dean—"

"You know why we can't ask for that kind of help! Listen, I'm still alive, aren't I? I'm fine, Sam." Dean's face went from angry to reassuring.

"That's not good enough, Dean. I can't— You can't expect me to shrug it off when I know what's going on in your head. Let me and Cas help."

"You weren't supposed to know what was going on in my head, Sam," the microwave timer hit zero and Dean pulled out the plate, grabbing three bottles of beer and halfway out the kitchen. Sam followed, the situation before him looking hopeless. But, they've already been to hopeless and made it work; he's sure they can pull it off one more time.

For Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short update chapter. ;u; Have encountered writer's block, and I'm feeling immensely guilty as I saw subscriptions to this and abandoned it for a year. /)~(\ I'll try my best to write more, but university's really taking up a lot of time and creativity. ;_; Please forgive me. :(

After dinner, Dean immediately grabbed his journal from the basement and kept it in his room instead. He found a box and painted angel warding all over it, sealing it with a combination lock. He stored the box under his duffel in his closet, easily concealed from view. He closed his closet, laid down on the bed, and put on his headphones.

_I am a man who walks alone_  
 _And when I'm walking a dark road_  
 _At night or strolling through the park_  
  
 _When the light begins to change_  
 _I sometimes feel a little strange_  
 _A little anxious when it's dark._  
  
 _Fear of the dark, fear of the dark_  
 _I have constant fear that something's always near_  
 _Fear of the dark, fear of the dark_  
 _I have a phobia that someone's always there_

His eyes droop and memories of hunting alone flash in his mind. The dulling silence of the room, filled only by the clanking of guns and bottles; the anxiety that drowns him as he sleeps with one eye open; the comforting feel of a knife or a gun beneath his pillow; and, the painfully lonely warmth of alcohol coursing through his veins. Whenever he dreams, he dreams of his mother. Beautiful Mary in her flowing white nightgown and her smile that brightens up the whole world. He dreams of her placing pies by the windowsill then holding Sam in her arms as she kisses John on the cheek. He dreams of a warm home filled with love, happiness, and safety that he's never known. It doesn't smell like gasoline or cheap whisky; it's miles away from reminding him of silver bullets and salt rounds. His mother doesn't smell like ash or sulfur; she smells like roses in a garden and sunshine and summer. His father smells like car grease and motor oil; not alcohol and blood. He'd play with his little brother on the front lawn, all smiles and bright skies; not guns and demon traps.

Sometimes, he dreamed about Jess. He dreamed about seeing his brother screaming, fighting to get away from his grasp, as the woman of his dreams burned on the ceiling like the only other woman that ever mattered. In that moment, he felt the exact same heat—the exact same pain and desperation—in that room, in that house, on that night in Kansas when everything changed.

When the silence starts to get too loud and the solitude too much, he curls up in bed and tries to sleep but he feels the bruises on his face and the lashes on his back from when he was little instead. He feels a phantom heartache of someone who isn't him—or at least, he'd like to think it isn't—and his chest gets heavy and there's suddenly a lump in his throat. Tears threaten to fall every single night, but he never lets them because that's not the Dean Winchester John knew. It's not the Dean Winchester Sam knew. It's the Dean Winchester he alone knew, and he knows all too well that nobody cares about that Dean. A normal human being would be sad or angry or upset, but all he's ever been is the complete opposite of normal and it's no surprise to anyone that he doesn't care too. _It's better off that way._

"Sam," Castiel called out, walking towards Sam from the stairs and sitting beside him to look at the page he was currently reading on his laptop. "What are you doing?"

"I'm looking for anyone who could help Dean. Psychiatrists who know all of this stuff is real, that it exists. Shrinks for hunters." Sam replied, head cradled in his hand while the other lazily dragged fingers across the touchpad.

"Sam," Cas said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder with pitiful eyes. Sam knew what it meant.

"This isn't gonna do him any good, huh?" He said, eyelids heavy while closing his laptop. "What are we supposed to do, Cas?" He continued, placing both of his hands on top of his laptop in loose fists, shaking slightly.

"I don't know," the angel replied and shook his head, "but, we'll find a way."

"How?" 

Cas paused for a few seconds, then stood up, only to disappear again when Sam needs him the most. Sam opened his laptop again, typed on the search engine, and pressed enter. Desparation coursed through his veins.

SEARCH TERMS:  _signs that my brother is hiding something from me what the hell should i do?_

_Your query returned no results. Please try again using different keywords._

"Shit, Dean." He said, running his hands through his hair while grabbing roughly in frustration and worry. "I wish Mom was here." Sam shook his head and buried his face in his hands. "What am I supposed to do," he asked as tears escaped from his fingers.

 

 


End file.
